


On a Stage with Just a Mirror

by residentdm



Series: And Now I'd Like to Take a Bow [4]
Category: Dungeons & Dragons - All Media Types
Genre: reflection time, title from Runaway by half alive, what an advancement, wow marie has Thoughts?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-10
Updated: 2020-07-10
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:33:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25188754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/residentdm/pseuds/residentdm
Summary: If asked by a noble, Marie would say that she had not thought about Salem in a very long time.
Series: And Now I'd Like to Take a Bow [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1798657
Comments: 1





	On a Stage with Just a Mirror

If asked by a noble, Marie would say that she had not thought about Salem in a very long time. That would, of course, be the answer that they would expect, if not with a modicum of disappointment. Perhaps, instead, they’d ask for her thoughts on her wayward sister’s disappearance at the time it had occurred, or they’d press the youngest sister on her opinion of her father’s claims that the runaway was a traitor to the crown; at this, Marie would always find some escape from the conversation, often utilizing the skill of derisive commentary. The noble would wander away with no answers, as Marie was left behind with too many questions brought back to mind.

She thought of Salem all too often.

At the time of her sister’s disappearance, it was with the same emphasis as her father. At first it was marketed as a tragedy; someone had stolen the girl away, obviously wanting a ransom from the wealthy house. Salem plagued Marie’s thoughts like a rotting cheese, jealousy encouraging a grosser result. Of course it had to be _Salem_ that was kidnapped: the house’s odd one out; the black sheep. Of course it was _Salem_ they would beg a fortune for; when she returned, she would be a well-spoken name in the circles of nobility. Of course _Salem_ had to be taken; proof that the family did love its quiet daughter, a spotlight on her sister. When Salem returned Antoinette would never stray from her side, ready to pick a fight; Mother would hold her tight and safe from the world; even Father would love her for the sympathy this has brought to the family—already he was always locked away in his office, muttering to himself. And where would Marie be in all of this? Dragged along, made to sympathize, and, inevitably, forgotten again. Marie thinks back to all the ill attention Salem has already received from her family, and, with a bitterness only a child would admit to, hopes that her sister would just remain lost.

The ransom never came. Salem never came back.

It was hard not to think of Salem then when she was the center of all the nobles’ gossip. There were rumors of murders, of cults, of sacrifice; beliefs in faked deaths, faked lives, fake people. Rumors that Salem just couldn’t take the pressure of being a noble; rumors that the Avingtons pushed her too far. Those were, of course, all ludicrous.

The true story must have been the one Marie’s father crafted himself, after days spent in that office. He told them, then, of assassins in the woods, calling to the malleable youth and turning them against their families. He claimed there was a measure to destroy all members of nobility, even the King himself. That was the tale he told Antoinette and Marie to preach; that their sister had been lured away by the devil. Not many believed him, but he told it with such a confidence that made Marie wonder when it would become real.

Become real. It wasn’t real yet, it couldn’t be. In that story Salem was with the bad guys and the nobility, her home—they were the good ones. And Marie, despite warnings of assassins luring her into similar treason, began to believe that while lightning danced the halls of her house as the two remaining sisters clung to each other in the darkest corner they could find, they could not yet be the good ones. Perhaps Salem had only seen that sooner.

It took many years for her thoughts on Salem to fully become curdled with regret. Marie stood, the day before her wedding, in Salem’s old room; dark, musty, untouched. The door had been locked shut. She had never realized that there were no windows here. All that was left was molded and adorned in mothballs.

The first memory Marie has is of Harold grabbing her by the wrist and warning her not to play with Salem. Even now, the most striking part of the memory is his eyes; glaring, glinting. She doesn’t remember what she had done to garner such a response; she doesn’t know what she did right afterwards. All she remembers is the eyes, the wrist, and the warning. Antoinette, later, warned her of the same thing. Marie would often catch the elder sister hanging around Salem; she assumed Antoinette was scolding Salem, as Harold often did. She did the same. She was never corrected.

Perhaps she should have figured it out on her own. She should have reached out to Salem and gotten to know her as a sister, not an enemy. She should have asked Harold why they had to be so mean. She should have stood up for her, once or twice or every time, realizing in all her childish wisdom that what was going on in this house was wrong, before Salem even had to realize it. Before it sunk all of them.

Perhaps, Marie muses, leaving the room, Salem was the only one of them wise enough to get out. While Antoinette buries herself in her father’s profession, and Marie pretties herself up to be sold away—perhaps Salem is free. Marie hopes so.

She leaves the door wide open on the way out.

Many moments later bring Salem back to mind. She thinks of Salem the first night she’s trapped in a house with her new husband; she thinks of Salem when someone breaks into the estate, this time, instead of out; she thinks of Salem when she helps her sister stand against Harold’s rage. When Antoinette disappears, she thinks of Salem and wonders if the eldest finally figured it out as well.

But there’s no belief in ransom, this time. There’s no sympathies accepted, nor messages let out; Harold locks himself away and does not answer the door. How funny, Marie thinks, that the princess of the castle has become just as forgotten as the rest of them. She wonders if Harold ever even tried to find Salem. Perhaps she was dead.

Perhaps she was dead.

It is this thought that pushes Marie to find her sister. She packs her things and sneaks away in the dead of night, the only one catching her departure being her husband—it is odd to have someone on her side. She heads for the last place she knew Antoinette to be: Alivar, a town of ghosts. She looks back over and over again as Hope City grows more distant; she looks forward more often. She thinks of Salem, running away; she thinks of Antoinette, in whatever escape she has stumbled upon. She thinks of old jealousy, terrible discoveries, and unending regret. She thinks of Salem.

With questions on her mind, Marie Avington, finally, escapes.


End file.
